


Strain

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Adultery, Angst, F/M, Infidelity, Married Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:49:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angst, infidelity, and one last crazy attempt to save their marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strain

He does it because he’s tired of couple’s therapy. He’s weary of making lists that are supposed to be helpful and open doors to understanding but only seem to make things worse: the things he loves about her, the things that drive him nuts, the people he’s fucked around with on the side.

 _Make-up girl. Woman at the Hilton bar. Zach. Anton. Limo driver._

He leaves off their therapist’s name.

It doesn’t help. None of this shit helps and they both know it—the lists make her just as angry as they make him and they pretend to feel better in session but then when they get home, it’s broken dinner plates and using remote controls as weapons. Waking the kids up with their yelling. It’s a strain to live this way and it’s just not working.

So when she brings it up, he says yes, because hell if he’s come up with any better ideas. The thought of it scares him a bit—he doesn’t know if she’ll look at him differently the next day, see someone else where her husband used to be. But she hasn’t been too pleased at what she’s seen lately anyway, has she? If he asked her to draw him a picture, he’d be hard-pressed to look at it.

Natalie comes to L.A. for the weekend and sends him off on the quest because, as she quips, “We already know you’re good at it.” And, as always, it doesn’t take long. She has auburn hair and an impish smile, full of small teeth; a tiny waist and slightly wide hips that he wouldn’t mind seeing without those jeans on. She’s obviously attracted to him, the way she’s leaning close and giving him a full view of her cleavage as she tongues at the straw of her drink. When he says, “My wife and I were thinking…” she doesn’t even flinch—just nods and flirtatiously asks if the wife is as attractive as he is.

“More,” he says, nodding absently. “She’s devastating.” And he pauses when he realizes that, for once, he’s being utterly honest.

He considers Natalie on the drive back, the petite girl sitting in the car beside him, petting his thigh with her nimble fingers. He wonders if she’s already started without them, alone on his bed, hair wild on the curve of his pillow; or if she’s pacing the room, chewing on her nails with worry. Maybe she’s undressing, pushing away the regrets along with her clothes. And will she be quiet throughout the evening or take charge? As well as he knows her, this is a new variable. Natalie thinks it could help. And like this, the woman always claims he never lifts a finger for her, getting on her high horse about every damn thing—yet here he is, bringing a complete stranger home, all because she asked him to.

He does it because he’ll do anything. If she doesn’t know that by now, what’s the use?

“Natalie?” he calls when they arrive, but there’s no answer. They go to the bedroom and her suitcase is gone from its messy, open splay on the floor. No candles or incense burning, even though she was considering both options just a few hours ago—just a folded note on the bedspread.

I’m sorry, K. I can’t after all. I thought it’d be easier to share you if I were there. But it never gets easier, does it? Not for us.

 _I’ll be in touch. Love,  
Nat_

He sits heavily on the bed, clutching the note in both hands, staring at the words written there as if they’ll rearrange or rewrite themselves into something less final. “She changed her mind” is all he can offer by way of explanation to the young girl. She nods, sympathetic and still somehow expectant; she’s the very last thing he needs.

“Too bad,” she says. “It could have been good.”

He nods and pictures Natalie boarding her flight, putting the ocean back where it belongs: dead between them. He stands up and turns off the lights.

“It could have,” he agrees.


End file.
